The Cavalier Poet

It was after the funeral.Your eyes met mineacross the strained formalities marching across the pained blue plainsof the ceiling.Perhaps, I thought, they allowedthe hint of a smileto cloud my thoughts.So lovely I knew was your smile,as sweet as an apple covered in sugar.But my thoughts were a powerless skyover the sea of gravy that was my plate,impotent over the placid islands of chicken.Despite your silent importuning,I chose to worship my stomach.I let boredom be your fate,but I did not intend for a drunk uncleto disgorge his affection onto your lap.But why did you kick me on your way out,dearest? That really hurt.

Wearing His Red Faja

she has gone out carrying a white gourdlike a lunar fragment covered with dustshe has gone down the hallway of his house in the darkdown its faces of old tambourines and clocksand tracks of frazzled lightningand she has goneout the door of the house he returns to like a dogreturning to the grave of its dead master

How To: Recover

Memorize what she ate, make it for dinner eat alone, hands are hawks swimming in air above the plate, never touching down but always hunting. Set for sea at dark hips groaning to the shore, but lips never touching slick surface.

The Sky Is Not Falling

Attention all readers: we will be experiencinga cosmic lunar event tomorrow afternoon at approximately12:07.314 pm, lasting the amount of time it takes youto make pancakes Christmas morning or the lengthof two of your deceased father’s vinyl records: whichever comeslast. To fully enjoy this unique occurrence experts recommend wearingsunglasses in the shapes of cookie cutters or dancingwith your lover to Freddie Mercury’s “Killer Queen” dependingon what you find more age appropriate. Speaking

of age, did you know the next family member who will experience such an eventis either your great7grandchild or great-13grandparent dependingon if you’re a glass half empty or glass half full kind of person.Although focus groups tell us both will find this event “enjoyable” or“just what this country needs” one is statisticallymore likely to believe that the enveloping darkness is a signalof the coming Armageddon, but our chaplain on call urges you not to be alarmedand reminds you that it is only God winking at us. When you go outside

with your children and raise your fingers as if the sky (the same sky, biologists urge usto remember we have lived under all our lives) was a graffiti’d up SistineChapel and the only word you knew in Italian was “old shoe”, remind themthat the next world is coming. We have no guaranteeits blackouts will be so welcoming. When its sun vanishesyou will have no way of knowing when it will come out again, if Godwill open His eyes to let you know it was all a joke. So be sure to set your watchesbecause the next one will not be predetermined,but built from your coal-black kitchen tables and jamboree radios and back yard churches.Though we are not authorities on the subjectwe think it will be quite beautiful.

Give A Holler to the Changing of the Guard

Past the doorman of a complex that used to be Lake Michigan Gold Coast material but’s become where widows pass their last tarnished days, instead of usual stairs, this less than dutiful 70 year-old smoker takes the wheezing lift to 3B. When Dad died of lung cancer, considering removal of the peeling bit of return address sticker from which surgeon Bernie cut everything except B. G. Sarnat, I decided to leave it between the crotchety knocker and spy hole. Springing forward to today’s delving May day, sniffing jacaranda on the boulevard from her steely wheelchair, Mother mumbled, “I’m younger than you now. Son, I worry

your hacking cough
might not make it to my wonderful hundredth birthday party.”
After I snipped the big galoot’s B. off the door. Mom romped,
“Gerry, I eat those words -- you are now the man of my house.”

Thomas James 4: Meeting With Officer Jarvis

“Thomas, instead of having you do volunteer work in a soup kitchen, I talked to a woman who owns a little eatery. It’s called The Southfield Kitchen. It’s not too far from here. The lady’s name is Sarah Cummings. She’ll be expecting you to report to work today at 3 p.m.” Officer Jarvis Maxwell informed Thomas James, while handing him the slip of paper with all the pertinent information.

“But, I was thinking I could volunteer at the Soup Kitchen to do community service. After all, I owe that much to society, to the girl whose life I took that day, to her brother, and their entire family. I owe amends to God, and…”

“Son, hadn’t you learned anything Father Samuels taught you. It’s important to forgive yourself. You’ve already made amends for what you’ve done. Fifteen years is a long time for a man so young to have been locked up in jail. You paid your debt to society. Now, it’s time to make a fresh start. It will be ups and downs in life, but not so bad as they were when you were growing up. You deserve a second chance in life, seen as how you weren’t given a fair chance the first time around. I admire you for wanting to take responsibility for what you’ve done. But punishing yourself isn’t going to bring the girl back.

“Don’t we all wish it were possible to bring loved ones back from the dead so we could be happy and enjoy time with them? I know what you’re going through son. Before I became an officer of the law, I was a criminal at a young age. I fractured the law. Well, a few of them anyway, when I was young. What I’m trying to say is you’re not alone when it comes to making mistakes. Some folks make bigger mistakes than others. Let me tell you something, young man, if I could turn my life around, and believe me when I say I wasn’t perfect, I believe you can do that, as well. I believe you can. Why I was put in juvenile home for 3 ½ years for beating up a man in a party store, a clerk, mind you, because he wouldn’t sell me any cigarettes. I had some hard knocks in life. Like me, you’re not a lost cause.”

The two men got up from their seats, approached each other and shook each other’s hand.

“Thomas. Remember what I told you. You are not alone in this world. You have my number. Call me anytime you need to talk or if you have any questions about goals in life that you may want to pursue. I mean anything at all,” Officer Jarvis Maxwell cheerfully informed him.

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas James replied while heading out the door of Officer Jarvis Maxwell’s office with a new stride in his step, because for the first time in a long, long, time, he wasn’t alone in the world. He had a friend in Officer Jarvis Maxwell.

Feminism, Authenticity, and Satire: The Artwork of Courtney Porto

*Editor's Note: Born and raised in Omaha, NE, Courtney Kenny Porto, is known for her charcoal drawings and yarn paintings. Porto’s work focuses largely on satire, authenticity, and feminism, three concepts she feels strongly about. Porto Graduated Summa Cum Laude from Bethany College (Lindsborg, KS) with a bachelor’s degree in Studio Art. She has exhibited work in numerous juried and solo exhibitions throughout the United States.

There was a bunch of us cocky expertswho hung out besotted among the crappy leftover buntingsand balloons at the top of Hollywood Park’sstretch section of the bleachers.Practically every day I was there, includingthe weekend of our high school ball.Hank sat about ten rows behind -- even worse viewalbeit the decisive action takes place around that turn.The huge beast who didn’t wear clothes well was always alone.Finally I got up the nerve to ask him to autographthe Daily Racing Form I gave to my kind of dateinstead of a corsage.One day following him through the trash of torn ticketsto the $2 window, we couldn't believe our ears:Hank bet the goddamn favorite to show!For all his horse race ruminations,theMaster of the Gameactually knew nothing.

Charlie Zain

A little girl, who was grasping her mother’s hand tightly, craned her neck and stared up into the sky. People bustled by, talking on their cell phones and carrying their briefcases, their perfectly shined shoes clicking across the sidewalk as they passed. They were like cattle, blindly bumping into each other and shuffling through the concrete maze.

“Maawwwmm!!,” the little girl whined, yanking on her mother’s hand and planting her feet, still staring upwards. Lillian, her mother, simply ignored her, dragging her along while talking into the phone pressed to her ear.

“Mom!” the girl screeched, yanking her mother’s arm as hard as she could. “Stop!”

The Water Snake

In the Bayous of Southern Louisiana, there was once was a boy who lived in the swamps alone. The boy had always been an orphan, and lived by fishing and catching wild animals with his bare hands. One day, the boy was fishing when he suddenly caught a snake on his fishing line. He reeled the snake up, wondering whether or not he should release the creature.